


Where Thou Art

by Mottlemoth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Feelings, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Softie Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 09:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20151556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: A late-night bus to London, a few human comforts, and a long overdue confession... nothing will ever be the same for an angel and his demon.





	Where Thou Art

**Author's Note:**

> For Carrie. xx

For where thou art, there is the world itself,  
With every several pleasure in the world,  
And where thou art not, desolation.  
I can no more; live thou to joy thy life,  
Myself no joy in nought but that thou liv'st.

_ William Shakespeare, Henry VI Part II_

* * *

_ 'We're on our own side'. _

Aziraphale can't quite stop thinking about it. 

Although his body might be sitting on the number six bus, formerly to Oxford city centre, his mind feels like a bath he's still sitting in as the water grows cold—but he's simply too weary to get out and get dry. The bus jostles as it trundles its way on towards Mayfair, bumping his knee very gently against Crowley's. His thoughts all jostle and trundle and bump along with them, heading homeward, getting nowhere.

Crowley's hardly said a word all this way. He's slumped at Aziraphale's side with one arm along the back of their seat, the other discarded haphazardly on his own knee. The silence in itself isn't a mark of unease. Crowley perfected his air of taciturn coolness several millennia ago, and he still deploys it to great effect here in the twenty-first century. He's one of those souls who can manage to look as if he's just where he should be, even when he isn't. Most of the other people Aziraphale has known to possess that talent are cats.

But as they make their way onward through the darkness, there's something off in Crowley's silence—something tired, a little nervy. He rubs his fingertips together now and then, uneasy. Every few miles he shifts, as if the weight of his thoughts has grown uncomfortable on his shoulders. On a journey like this, he'd normally have gotten bored by now and started to cause minor mischief. He'd have opened up conversation, at the very least. Nothing usually passes the time on public transport like teasing Aziraphale.

He's barely looked at Aziraphale since they got on board. 

He's spent the journey instead in this strange and unsettling quiet, watching the sleeping world go by. 

_ You stopped time, _ Aziraphale thinks, numb, watching his fingers rub. _ You brought it all to a stop... all of it. All for fear we wouldn't speak again. _ For a few moments, he isn't here on the bus any longer. He's standing beneath a bandstand in the rain, his heart burning up inside his chest, listening to Crowley say it like it's obvious: they'll go off together. They'll find some far flung corner of the universe and make it their own. _ Did you mean it? _He doesn't know how to guide the world back to that moment, that conversation, so he can answer Crowley again. He could get it right this time, he's sure of it—if only he could have one more try. 

_ Oh, god. I don't want them to hurt you. _

Crowley stirs in the seat beside him. He cranes his head to glance back at the otherwise empty bus, drawing a soundless sigh. As he returns his gaze to the front, it catches briefly in Aziraphale's—a half-second's glimpse of weary serpentine yellow above his sunglasses.

Aziraphale tries a smile, shy. _ Everything's fine. Isn't it? _

Crowley raises an eyebrow, saying nothing, and looks away.

Quiet falls once more; a few more miles of unlit human world pass by. 

Just out of London, Aziraphale realises the sugar-vinegar scent of the wine they shared lingers in the atmosphere around them. Whether it's in their breath or on their clothes, he can't quite ascertain—or even in his head, perhaps—just another product of the fuzziness of his thoughts. It's been an immensely long day, only getting longer by the minute. All he can really manage is to watch his mind ebb from one raw memory to the next, processing each just a little at a time, like sanding the sharp edges off a pebble. 

_ 'We're on our own side.' _

It's so easy to worry about retribution. 

They did the right thing; he's sure of it. It seems so damned _ unfair, _ though. If anyone fixed things this evening, he and Crowley have a handsome claim indeed—and yet he fears he and Crowley will be the ones to pay the price. 

He's sure his own superiors will be reasonable about this incident, given time. They'll come to see it was vastly for the best.

He worries so desperately for Crowley, though. 

_ The demon who put a halt to the rise of Satan's son. _ Hell can't possibly just cut him loose for that. They've never been the type of organisation to release their taloned grip upon a grudge.

_ And so unjust, _ Aziraphale thinks, his heart struggling in silence as Crowley shifts again beside him, watching the buildings of New Bond Street go by. They're almost home. It feels unreal. _ You acted so nobly. You were so... good. So heroic. _

_ What in heaven's name will they do to you for it? _

The bus finally slides to a stop outside the tube station, a quiet bump that signals the end of something. It isn't far from here to Crowley's flat. Crowley eases from his seat without a word, then hangs back for Aziraphale to go past him. 

Aziraphale does so, with a nervous smile which isn't at all returned. 

He thanks the bewildered driver, who's too busy staring open-mouthed at the sign saying 'Bond Street Station' to notice them, then alights from the bus with a careful hop. Crowley joins him on the pavement, smoothing the lapels of his jacket. 

The bus pulls off in the night, and they're alone again—two souls amongst eight million.

Aziraphale reaches uncertainly for Crowley's gaze; he receives a guarded glance from behind the sunglasses. 

"Do you... want to go somewhere for food, or..." Crowley sticks a thumb over his shoulder. "That sushi place you like, maybe? Bit out of the way, but... my treat."

Aziraphale's heart twists. It's kind of him to offer—but the thought of being around humanity makes him feel terribly weary at the moment. He's not sure if this evening feels small enough or cosy enough for something like sushi.

"I, erm... find myself a little tired, I'm afraid. I think the bus has disagreed with me..." He hesitates, hoping very much he hasn't misread the situation; now seems the time to ask. "Crowley, o-old boy—did you mean it? That I could stay with you for the night? I hate to be an inconvenience, but I'd dearly like to sleep somewhere for once..."

Crowley's forehead folds. 

"'Course I meant it," he mumbles. "I'm not just going to leave you to it, am I? C'mon." He turns in the direction of his flat, checking with a glance he has Aziraphale with him. "Mind if I get a kebab on the way?"

"Oh—no, of course not. Whatever you wish." 

* * *

They stand outside the shop for Crowley to eat, their faces half-lit by the bright white glow through the window. Aziraphale watches with pained, quiet amusement as Crowley wolfs half the contents of the polystyrene tray in under a minute, licking smudges of chilli sauce off his fingertips.

"I'm not quite sure how you can eat that," he says, offering a faint smile.

Though Crowley huffs, he makes no response. 

Spirits dampened further, Aziraphale returns to watching the traffic at the head of the road. He squeezes his own hands quietly. _ Tired of me. My prattling and fussing. A whole week of it... haven't seen this much of each other in centuries... _

"Helps me feel a bit more normal, that's all," he then hears. 

He looks around, blinking. Crowley is continuing to eat as if he didn't say a word, spearing spare pieces of shredded meat with his inadequate plastic fork. 

"S-Sorry?" Aziraphale tries.

Crowley's cheek pulls. 

"Eating," he explains, transfers the meat to his mouth and chews. He keeps his eyes down. "Just... y'know. Feels grounding. It's been a rough night."

_ Oh. _Aziraphale smiles, flushing. "I... rather meant the chilli sauce. Too hot for me."

Crowley huffs again. He shakes his head, mopping some up with a scrap of pitta. "Are you really not hungry?"

"Heavens, no. I don't think I could eat if you paid me..." Aziraphale clears his throat, trying not to watch as Crowley sucks a blob of sauce off his thumb. He turns his gaze across the street instead. "You're quite right, though."

"Mm?"

"It _ has _ been a rough night. I'm sorry it's left you feeling... out of sorts."

Crowley doesn't respond for a while, picking up scraps with his fork. He's ignored nearly all of the salad. 

"Got off the bus and just realised I was starving," he shrugs. "Don't ask me to explain it."

"I don't think you need to _ explain _it, Crowley. We've been through a traumatic event. Human comforts are... well," Aziraphale murmurs, "a comfort."

Crowley exhales, thinking something he doesn't seem to like. 

"I suppose so," he says. "It's just... _ weird _ to think how close we came. Losing it all, I mean. Then back in London, it's just an ordinary Saturday night for humanity..." He gestures vaguely with the fork. "Takeaways and traffic lights. Life goes on. It's wrecking my head."

Aziraphale doesn't know whether to smile or not. He almost wants to touch Crowley, lay a reassuring hand on his arm, but he's already quite certain he makes his fondness too clear. It's something of a miracle that Crowley has never picked up on it.

"Our lives go on, too," he says. He watches Crowley skewer a few more shreds of meat. "Perhaps we're both experiencing a little shock, in that regard. I think there came a point where neither of us expected to survive. It's no wonder we're shaken."

Crowley nods, dimly. "Better in the morning, d'you think?"

"Oh—oh, yes. I'm sure of it." 

"I'll hold you to that."

"Do," Aziraphale says. He turns his head to watch the main road, trying to ignore the nervous flutter of distress across the back of his mind. _ They'll come for you, sooner or later. They'll come to deal with you. I can't bear it. _"Is the food helping at all?"

"This stuff always tastes better when I'm pissed, but... well, it's not hurting, anyway."

Aziraphale smiles a little, not quite feeling it. 

"Good," he says, his attention caught by motion across the street. The front doors of a bar have just swung open, emitting into the night a young woman in a sparkly dress and her lover—her _ female _ lover, he realises, reminding himself with a guilty flush that cropped hair and tattoos are no barrier to femininity these days. He watches as the two of them set off along the street together, grinning at each other; the taller wraps her arm around her girlfriend's waist. There's a little giggling, nuzzling. They seem quite enchanted with one another.

Aziraphale isn't surprised when they stop beneath a streetlight just to kiss.

He finds himself smiling properly at last, warmed by the sight of them together—two happy young people in love, so comforted by their lover's closeness that the world and all its problems fade away. 

They'll be able to stay in love for many years now, he realises—if they wish—perhaps even many decades. This might be just their first date. Maybe they've longed for each other for years, he thinks fondly, watching them cuddle beneath the streetlight. Maybe they've waited for this wonderful night since first they met. 

He doesn't want to interfere—he doesn't want to risk steering their path in a direction they might not want it to be steered—but all the same, as they release each other, giggling, and set off once more down the street, he sends his warmest and most loving thoughts after them. 

_ I wish you well, _ he thinks, his heart swelling to its full capacity. _ I hope life treats you kindly. Both of you. _ He watches their hands twine together. _ Be safe. _

As they reach the main road, turn the corner and head out of sight, it leaves him feeling oddly and quietly alone.

He then recalls with a flush that he isn't. 

He glances at Crowley, just to check that his moment of strange reverie for two perfectly oblivious strangers wasn't witnessed.

Crowley isn't eating anymore. He's simply holding the tray and the fork, gazing off along the road behind his sunglasses—and though Aziraphale can't be certain, for one small moment he's almost sure that Crowley was watching the young ladies leave.

"Done," Crowley says, before Aziraphale can scoop his startled brain up off the street. He flips the lid of his container shut, locks it and casts it quickly into the wastebin beside them. "Home, yeah?"

"Oh—y-yes. If you're finished, of course. If there's nothing else you—"

"Let's go," Crowley says, and without a glance he turns, leaving Aziraphale to hurry after him down the road.

* * *

Nothing at all is said until the door of Crowley's building comes into sight—at which point, Aziraphale can't bear it any longer. He lengthens his stride to catch up with his friend, stumbling slightly on the kerb. 

"Has something upset you, Crowley?" he asks.

Crowley says nothing, heading for the door with his head down and his shoulders high. Aziraphale's heart clenches in his chest.

"I-If I've said something I shouldn't—if I've offended you in some way, I certainly never meant to..."

"Tired," Crowley says. "That's all." He reaches out towards the keypad, his jaw set. "Thinking too much." 

Before he can finish the code, Aziraphale intervenes. He slides himself quickly into the space between Crowley and the door, blocking the way, and presses his back against the hard glass surface.

His pulse speeds as Crowley surveys him from behind the sunglasses, unimpressed, waiting for him to move. 

He presses his dry lips together.

"What have I done?" he asks.

Several civilisations rise and fall in the time it takes Crowley to answer. His jaw works several times, grinding back words he doesn't want to say—and Aziraphale begins to fear he's said something unforgivable, something morbidly offensive without meaning to—then he realises this isn't Crowley's anger. Crowley shouts when he's angry. He rages and he punishes and corrects. He certainly doesn't keep it to himself. This is something entirely different.

He's seen this once before—a bandstand, gathering storm clouds—rain. _ "Have a nice doomsday." _

Aziraphale doesn't dare to speak. He simply watches Crowley, waiting, his fingers tensed with nerves against the cold glass behind him.

At last, Crowley sniffs. He forces it all away, gone—there's almost a puff of smoke. He shrugs. 

"You've not done anything," he says. "Shift, will you? It's cold."

"There's something," Aziraphale says, his voice shaking. He searches what little of Crowley's face he can see. "I know there is. You simply don't dare to tell me."

"Look, it's not a question of—_ 'dare' _ —it's a question of—of—look, just get out the way, will you? You're tired as hell. _ I'm _ tired as hell. Let's call the whole thing off."

Aziraphale draws a long breath, not moving from the door. 

"Crowley," he murmurs, far braver than he feels, and watches some more of the colour drain from Crowley's face. "Crowley, we... w-we nearly saw the end this evening. We nearly saw the end of everything. If that isn't reason enough to trust me with your thoughts, then—th-then perhaps I should find a hotel—"

"No—no, don't do that. You don't need to go. It's not a big deal, it's just—l-listen. You don't want me to say. Right? You don't know it, but believe me, you don't. You want me to keep my trap shut. We'll go inside, I'll make you up a Horlicks and we'll watch Top Gear. That's what we _ both _ want right now. So—with that established, how about you m—"

"I don't _ want _ to watch Top Gear, Crowley. I want you to trust me."

"I _ do _ trust you! Of course I trust you—god, how many millennia does it take until—"

Aziraphale breathes in sharply. "Then _ spit it out, _Crowley! For heaven's sake. I shan't move until you do."

Crowley's jaw tenses. "My plants need lecturing."

Aziraphale lifts his chin with a little shake, fixing Crowley with a look of mute and nonplussed defiance. It's the most aggressive facial expression he's ever made at someone.

Crowley visibly passes his tongue across his teeth. A muscle twitches in his forehead.

"Fine," he says. It's so quiet Aziraphale barely hears it. "Alright. Okay. You want to wreck everything? Fine. Let's wreck everything." For several seconds there's silence as he arranges the words in his mouth. "Let's—talk."

Aziraphale merely nods, waiting in silence for more. 

Crowley wets his lips. He casts his eyes to the pavement, then away along the street to watch a cyclist go by, anywhere and everywhere but Aziraphale's face. 

"Haven't talked for six thousand bloody years," he mumbles. "Won't talk for another six thousand more, if I don't just—..." He inhales, stiffly. "I need to tell you something. I've thought it for a while. I can't not tell you anymore."

Aziraphale's heart tightens. 

He takes a moment to drum up the courage, flushing as he glances at Crowley's sunglasses.

"Not with those in the way." He lifts his chin, squeezing his own palms nervously at his sides. "If you have something to say to me, Crowley, I... I believe you owe me the courtesy of looking me in the eye."

Crowley thinks about it. At last, with another darkened glance along the street to ensure they're alone, he reaches up and with reluctance pulls the glasses down his nose. 

He folds them away into his pocket, one-handed—not quick enough to prevent Aziraphale seeing.

"You're shaking—" he gasps. The guarded golden flash of Crowley's eyes confirms it. He reaches out in instinct, touching Crowley's arm. "Crowley... what on earth—"

The contact seems to hurt. Crowley's expression tenses, though he doesn't pull away. He looks down at Aziraphale's fingers curled around the sleeve of his jacket, gazing at them as if they mean something he can't push aside, and for several seconds he visibly fights for words.

"You'll forgive me," he says at last, wetting his lips again. "You'll forget about it. You always have. Few hundred years, and it'll be like I never said anything." He swallows. "And I'm tired, right? Just... hang onto that. Hang onto it _ tight. _ And you can stay, even if you—I just... just need to..."

Aziraphale realises his mouth has opened. He closes it, running his hand gently up Crowley's forearm.

"For heaven's sake..." he murmurs, and the distressed glance it earns him pulls his heart out of shape. "We've just _ saved the world. _ We've made everything perfectly alright again. What could you possibly say in this moment to upset me?"

Crowley doesn't move, paling. His mouth works around the words. Still they stick in his throat, afraid to come forth, and he searches Aziraphale's face as if looking desperately for comfort.

Worried, Aziraphale squeezes the crook of Crowley's arm. 

"Take a breath," he advises, his voice as gentle as he can, "and say it. It will all be over in a few short moments. Whatever it is—whatever you've done—it won't change anything."

Though his expression barely moves, Crowley's gaze flickers with distress. "Feel like I'm about to end the world."

Aziraphale tries to smile; he only hopes it looks somewhat stronger than it feels. 

"It will still be here, dear fellow. I promise." He hesitates, trying harder. "Shall we... breathe in together, perhaps? Frightening moments are always easier shared."

Crowley's pained silence seems enough like agreement to go ahead. Aziraphale squeezes the crook of his arm, and with a look of encouragement he begins to draw a breath—one deep, slow, soothing breath. As his own chest fills, he watches Crowley's shoulders rise. He sees Crowley's courage rise with them.

He sees Crowley's expression break.

Before he can think, Crowley moves. In a single motion he steps close into Aziraphale's body, dips his head and lifts both hands. As they cup Aziraphale's face, his back bumps into the door—and Crowley's lips press in desperation against his own.

Crowley's right.

It's like the world ends.

Aziraphale's eyes flutter shut on their own. He can't keep them open, too overwhelmed to recall how to use them. For what feels like an era, nothing exists but the gentle motionless press of their lips, Crowley's nose resting against his own, the solid glass door against his back, Crowley's fingertips cradling his face. It feels as if they're holding him up. Without them, he'd surely drop to the step as loose and formless as a pile of clothing. He doesn't dare to move. 

He can't breathe—can't think, can't process.

It simply is.

It starts and ends in absolute silence—and as it ends, his very soul seems to echo with the perfect and empty calm it leaves behind. Only their lips come apart. The rest of them stays connected, foreheads, noses, fingertips, Crowley's body shielding him safe against the door, Crowley's hand wrapped anxiously around his forearm. His own fingers have curled tight, too. 

It feels like a plea, both ways. 

_ Don't, _ their grip on each other begs. _ Please don't. _

Aziraphale finds himself suddenly desperate to cry. He doesn't have the faintest idea why. He opens his mouth, trying to speak. Nothing comes. 

A shake passes through Crowley's hand.

"M'sorry," he whispers. Their lips remain close enough to brush; Aziraphale feels the words as much as he hears them. They seem to sink beneath his skin, melting into his blood with a shiver. "Couldn't—anymore. Not another second. Sorry."

Aziraphale doesn't know what to say. His cheeks burn with sudden heat, his every nerve alive. He hears Crowley swallow; it only makes things worse.

"I know you can't," Crowley whispers. As his voice grows thick, his fingers curl tighter on Aziraphale's arm. "I know you won't. I know I've fucked it up. Just... god, if you knew. If you had any fucking idea." He swallows, hard, and for a second it almost sounds like he's fighting back tears. "You can still stay. I won't bother you. I-I won't mention it. Don't go off on your own, will you? Please. S'dangerous."

Aziraphale can only remember one word.

"Crowley," he says. It leaves him as nearly a whimper. He gasps a little, shaking, and it's impossible not to cling. "Crowley—"

Crowley's expression creases with pain. "Fuck. Don't. Please don't say my name like that."

_ "Crowley—" _ Aziraphale whimpers again, and closes the fractional gap between their lips, aching all over as he kisses Crowley. He doesn't have a clue what he's doing. It seems enough just to show, to try. He feels Crowley shudder and lean into the kiss, arms wrapping with desperation around him, and for what feels like several hours, the frightened stroke of their lips is all that matters. He can't remember putting his arms around Crowley's back. He doesn't know when one of Crowley's hands passed up into his hair, stirring through his curls—but when they close their grip and gently, _ gently _ pull, it's enough to startle a gasped moan out of his mouth and into Crowley's. 

Crowley seems to drink the sound, shuddering. 

He presses Aziraphale harder against the door. 

_ Oh, god—what are we doing? _

_ Oh— _

_ Oh, don't stop— _

Only when they're heckled by a passing drunk does Aziraphale recall that the world still exists. He blushes desperately, reaching up with trembling hands to touch Crowley's jaw and stop him—_ just for a moment, _ he thinks, his heart lurching wildly— _ for long enough to get inside. _

"Perhaps we—?" he manages, nervously glancing into Crowley's eyes. They've darkened dramatically, their yellow-orange now swirling like molten metal; the extra colour in Crowley's cheeks makes his stomach flip. He feels drunken and dazed. He feels newborn. "In private?"

Crowley nods, inhaling, and reaches out a hand to the keypad. Quickly he taps in the security code, his fingers a blur across the panel; it authorises them with a harsh and hollow buzz. 

Together they stumble inside.

Aziraphale nervously shuts the door behind them, barely daring even to look at Crowley. All his skin seems to tingle; he can't remember how it feels to breathe, walk or stand normally. As a guiding hand appears on his lower back, he tries to pretend he can't feel Crowley shaking, then complies with this strange pretense that he's never been here before, that he needs Crowley to show him the way upstairs. They ascend to Crowley's door in almost panicked silence, neither speaking. _ We need to be somewhere safe, _ Aziraphale thinks, his heart hammering. _ You want to be safe. You want me to be safe. _Crowley drops his key as he tries to get it into the lock, his fingers shaking too hard. "Oh, bugger it," he grunts, smacks the lock with his palm and it springs open with a startled clunk, admitting them miraculously into the unlit flat.

On the other side, Crowley traces a quick loop of eight around the handle. It glows hot orange for a second, sizzling, then melts deep into the door. The handle snaps up; the mechanism clatters. It's locked.

He turns in the darkness.

As their eyes meet, Aziraphale feels his heart crack against his ribs with the force of a charging ram.

It seems important to say.

"I don't have a clue what I'm doing," he squeaks, as Crowley steps close to him—then Crowley's arms slide around his waist, tug him close, and their lips meet again, and his entire chest heaves with a whimper. Crowley kisses him, restless strokes from a hungry mouth; every inch of Aziraphale's skin seems to ache in response beneath his clothes. It almost burns. His voice breaks as he gasps into the kiss, panting. "Crowley—"

"You're doing fine," Crowley breathes, and begins to walk him backwards. Precisely where they're going, Aziraphale doesn't know. He doesn't care. He holds onto Crowley, stumbling a little; Crowley's thumbs hook into the belt loops at his lower back to keep him steady and help him walk. "Don't make me stop," Crowley murmurs, catching his mouth for another kiss. Aziraphale's stomach jolts. "Not now," he husks. "Please. Don't make me let you go."

_ Oh— _

_ Oh, good god— _

"I... I-I trust you—"

Crowley steers him gently. "Good," he whispers, and they pass through a doorway, turning as they walk until Crowley himself is walking backwards. "Just here," he says, sinking back onto something, pulling Aziraphale with him. Only as he's coaxed up into Crowley's lap does Aziraphale realise it's the squashy white leather sofa, wide enough to clamber nervously astride Crowley, knees splaying clumsily either side of his thighs. "C'mere, angel..." Crowley croons, his voice soft and just a little rough, and it's enough to drive Aziraphale's pulse through the ceiling. He leans down as he's pulled, meeting Crowley's mouth, and Crowley's fingers card up into his hair. 

_ Oh, god—oh, oh god— _

He's never been petted like this. Handled like this. He's never felt someone run both hands with shameless longing down his sides. As he gasps into the kiss, trembling, it flashes through Aziraphale's mind that he couldn't bear any hand but Crowley's to touch him this way. Six thousand years, and he's never once looked into exploring this side of having a human body. Only Crowley could possibly be trusted.

And he'd thought Crowley couldn't possibly ever wish to—and so...

"How... h-how long have you—?" he whispers, breathless, as Crowley cups his face and strokes both thumbs beneath his lips.

Crowley shivers. "I'm not answering that."

_ Oh, god. _ Aziraphale's throat tightens. His breath catches as he swallows. "Crowley, I've... I've never—I'm not sure h-how this sort of—physical—"

"Never?" Crowley says, out of breath, looking up into Aziraphale's eyes. His ruffled flush will be occupying Aziraphale's dreams for the next millennium. "You've never gotten curious?"

"I've a... a _ theoretical awareness _ of what... _ options _ are available, but... well, it seemed wrong. H-Humans. It would have seemed like a terrible breach of trust." As Aziraphale joins some dots, realising something against his will, his stomach gives an uncomfortable and heady tug. "You— _ have...?" _

Crowley pauses. He glances at Aziraphale's mouth, a little guiltily; he pulls at his own lower lip. "In my defence, they're humans. They're creative little bastards. Most of them don't take that much tempting."

Aziraphale's stomach swoops unhappily. He doesn't like it. He knows at once that he doesn't like it. He wishes desperately he could believe it's the thought of Crowley exploiting innocent humans to sate his own devilish curiosity—but truly, and more alarmingly, it's the thought of the humans exploiting Crowley. He doesn't like the thought of hands on Crowley's skin. He doesn't like the thought of humans enjoying him, kissing his mouth, making him flushed and breathless like this. He doesn't want to imagine how many there could have been in six thousand years. _ 'At least six thousand' _seems a conservative bet.

It hurts.

Pained, Crowley watches him try to process it.

"It never meant anything," he offers, awkwardly. "Just... fun, you know?" His fingers flex a little nervously on Aziraphale's waist. "Pass the time. Scratch an itch."

Aziraphale wishes it didn't hurt. He searches Crowley's face for a moment of silence, trying to pull together the courage to speak.

"I'm... not quite sure I want to be a pastime." He looks into Crowley's eyes, his heart thudding. His voice seems small in the sudden silence, even to his own ears. "That doesn't really sound like much fun."

Crowley inhales, his chest rising up against Aziraphale's. "This isn't like that."

"Isn't it?"

"No." Crowley pauses, watching him closely. "Not with us."

Aziraphale can't quite breathe for a moment. _ Us. _For six thousand years, and finally 'us'. "No?" he manages, weakly.

"Of course it's not," Crowley says, and it's so rare to hear his voice this soft, this serious. It's desperately affecting. Aziraphale takes a moment to swallow. 

"What _ is _ it like?" he asks. A shiver cascades down his back; he can't hide it. "Oh, god, Crowley—what have we started?"

"Hey—hey, don't be scared. Don't stress." Crowley reaches up. He cups Aziraphale's face, his fingertips careful and just slightly too warm to the touch. "It's like whatever we want it to be like... right? It's just the two of us. Don't freak out on me. Please. Not now."

The knot of fear in Aziraphale's chest tries to ease, loosening just a little at the look of reassurance in Crowley's eyes. He lets Crowley pull him close; he lets their foreheads rest together.

There comes a moment of silence, perfectly soft in the pounding silence of the flat.

Aziraphale realises he can't cope without knowing.

"What do you want?" he whispers. _ If I don't ask now, I'll never ask. _ "What am I to you?" 

Crowley pauses. His eyes close; his nose lifts to nudge against Aziraphale's. Aziraphale feels him breathe in, feels him brace with nerves, and it's the most wonderful sensation in the world.

"My angel," Crowley murmurs. Aziraphale's eyes flicker shut, overcome. Crowley's lips brush across his mouth. "You... you know what I—you _ must _ know."

"I don't."

"Please don't make me say it."

"I-I'm afraid you must." It's hell to keep talking, hell to fight the clenching of his heart, but he has to. This can't go unsaid. "I won't be a mouse to you, Crowley. It hurts enough to see you toying with the poor humans for entertainment. I-I won't permit you to toy with me. I couldn't bear it."

Crowley's brow crumples, hurt. His fingers tighten around Aziraphale's jaw. "When've I ever toyed with you?"

"You've toyed with plenty of people—"

"When've I toyed with _ you?" _

Aziraphale flushes in desperation. "Crowley—" 

"We're friends," Crowley says, staring into his eyes, more open and vulnerable than Aziraphale has ever seen him. "We've _ always _ been friends. I've always played it straight with you, always. What, d'you think I—d'you think I'm just messing around, like I'm—" His forehead butts against Aziraphale's. "Angel—Angel, I'm..."

It's so easy to give into the desperate, gentle pull—to lean down again, let Crowley kiss him, and the kiss feels so soft and so careful that it's impossible to resist.

Trembling, Aziraphale strokes back his hair.

He feels Crowley's hands shake.

"I'd do anything for you," Crowley breathes, and it's all Aziraphale can do not to whimper. "Anything. End wars for you."

"Crowley..."

"I'd take a holy water shower for you. Do good for you. Anything in the world for you."

"C-Crowley—"

"You know it, don't you? You must know—you must've noticed—all these years—" 

Aziraphale's heart gives a desperate squeeze, ready to rupture. The break in Crowley's voice nearly discorporates him. He hushes softly and strokes the pad of his thumb over Crowley's lips, easing him into gentle quiet. As he kisses Crowley again, he feels Crowley tremble.

For a little while, existence becomes no more than this: shy, quiet strokes of their lips; brushing Crowley's hair with his fingertips; rubbing Crowley's nose with his own. Aziraphale can't recall which of them was attempting to soothe the other. It feels so comforting to share this, after all they've endured in the last week, and the silence of the flat seems to cup them safe in its hands. It feels wonderful to kiss.

_ You care for me, _ he thinks, frightened and overjoyed, his soul bucking like a hare. Crowley's hands stroke the back of his waistcoat with longing. _ You want this to happen between us. You want what I do. _

_ 'My angel'. _

Crowley begins to ease open the buttons of his waistcoat—one, then two, gently slipped apart before Aziraphale even notices. He shivers as he does, gasping into the kiss.

"Crowley—"

"I'll be gentle," Crowley breathes, and Aziraphale's inner organs seem to vaporise on the spot. His skin sears with the sudden need to be uncovered; colour floods his face. "I'll look after you, I promise. You won't believe how good it feels." He coaxes apart another button, flashing the seam of Aziraphale's lips with his tongue. "You'll wonder how you went six thousand years without."

_ I... I wouldn't have wanted to, with... with someone who isn't— _

Aziraphale's throat tightens as he swallows. 

"Be patient with me," he whispers. "Don't go too fast, will you? I'm a beginner."

He feels Crowley bite his own lip. "As if I'd rush this?" he says, slipping open the final two buttons, and strokes apart Aziraphale's waistcoat to touch the soft linen of his shirt beneath. "H-Holy hell, you're warm—" He seems to drink it with his palms, shivering; he steals another kiss from Aziraphale's mouth. "It's better in bed," he murmurs. "Somewhere comfortable. 'Specially your first time..."

_ Oh god. _Aziraphale draws a shaky breath. "Then perhaps we should find one. F-Fairly soon."

Crowley's hands flex at the bottom of Aziraphale's back. "Let me take your coat," he says, and gives a soft snap of his fingers. 

Time and space dissolve in a ruffling blur. In the same moment Aziraphale realises he's falling, his back hits something firm and soft. Before he can draw breath, Crowley lands on top of him with a flump and catches his mouth in a kiss. Aziraphale shudders, arching up; Crowley's hands skim restlessly over his arms and chest, rumpling the fabric of his shirt. His coat and waistcoat have vanished into the ether. Squirming, he discovers his socks and shoes have been dispensed with too.

He can't remember the last time he was this underdressed in front of someone.

"Relax..." Crowley whispers into the kiss, cupping his face, and it's so easy to trust. Crowley's voice seems to flood his every vein with warmth. "You're safe with me, angel... I know what I'm doing..."

Aziraphale shivers, inhaling as Crowley's body settles snug and close atop his own. Their hips press flush. With a jolt to the heart, he realises the hardness he feels is Crowley grinding against him, and it's enough to cut his pulse for a moment. He forces himself to breathe, to relax into the distracting flutter of Crowley's tongue between his lips. 

When fingertips finally slip beneath the loosened hem of his shirt, he's ready for them. 

Crowley's touch feels warm, perceptibly hotter than human hands—as if he's just left a steaming bath. His fingers glide slowly, longingly, over the quivering muscles in Aziraphale's sides; it feels as if Crowley's savouring these first brushes of skin. He's slowing them down to remember them. 

It feels almost devilishly good.

Aziraphale twitches, whimpering as Crowley strokes across his chest, fingertips catching gently on his nipples. He feels Crowley shiver on top of him at the sound. Their hips keep stirring together, rocking and building something as they kiss, and there's a feeling of tightness and heaviness in his abdomen now which Aziraphale registers in the back of his mind must be physical arousal. 

He's never felt it before. 

There's been no reason—no need. That half of his body has largely escaped his notice for over six millennia. Suddenly, he can think of little else. His trousers feel more uncomfortable by the moment, his skin hot and feverish beneath them, the muscles in his thighs now longing to clench. His pulse begins to race; he can feel it whispering in places he's never realised it could reach. Crowley's tongue slides lazily through his mouth as if they'll still be here like this at dawn, slowly petting and kissing and growing aroused together, and it's so decadently pleasurable that Aziraphale wants to cry. He can hardly breathe. 

Crowley's thumbs start to skim softly around his nipples—little circles. 

Aziraphale chokes with shock and enjoyment; his back arches up off the bed. _ Why would male humans even—? _ He gasps as he realises he doesn't care. He just needs it to continue. Crowley chuckles into his mouth, soft and dark as a shadow, and Aziraphale feels a distinct twitch jump through his groin in response. The very sensation makes him moan. 

Becoming aroused is arousing, he realises. Permitted to feel, permitted at last to want, his body has handed over all control of itself to Crowley. 

_ More, _ his skin seems to beg. _ More. Anything. More. _

Six thousand years of gazing, wishing, trying to convince himself that what he feels when he lays eyes on Crowley is anything but simple and desperate human love. 

He doesn't have to try anymore. He can simply feel it—all of it—even the part which makes his heart pound, his mouth start to water. 

_ You love me, too. _ He scrunches his fingers with longing in Crowley's hair, letting his head fall back into the pillow. Crowley's mouth slides down to gently devour his neck; it leaves him panting. _ You want to make love. Human love. Those are your hands I can feel, that's your mouth, this is your bed—and we'll be here through the night, together— _

The sudden flood of relief overwhelms Aziraphale. Heat burns across his eyes.

_ I will stop them. _

As Crowley begins to slip apart the buttons of his shirt, murmuring softness against his neck, the thought echoes through Aziraphale's soul. 

_ I will hurt them, if they try to hurt you. I will keep you safe—I will think of something—nothing will hurt you again. Nothing. _

_ Not so long as I exist in this world. _

His hand tightens in the back of Crowley's shirt.

"Crowley?" he whispers, shaking.

Crowley's mouth lifts to his ear, nuzzling its shell. "I'm here, angel," he murmurs. "It's all alright. I'm right here."

_ Oh god. _ "I—I-I'm in love with you. I have been for... _ ages, _ Crowley. I just thought you'd never..."

Crowley inhales. 

Aziraphale feels the breath as if its his own; his heart aches with a soundless flood of relief.

"I think I belong to you," Crowley says, brushing a hand across his bare stomach. Aziraphale bites into his lip. "Think I have from the start. The _ very _ start."

Something strains in Aziraphale's stomach. It takes him a second to gather the necessary courage.

Gazing into Crowley's eyes, he whispers,

"Show me."

Crowley lowers his head to Aziraphale's chest, maintaining eye contact as he catches the last button of his shirt between his teeth. 

He undoes it with his tongue.

There comes a moment, making love, when Aziraphale fears he's about to discorporate. The sensation of breaking open, shattering into wisps of light, feels just the same. He can't possibly contain anything more; he can't hold what Crowley's rising in him. All he can do is pry his fingers into Crowley's shoulders, arch his back from the mattress, screw his head into the pillows and moan, trying to release the pressure in his body as sound. His every muscle knots and pulls; he pleads at pitch, unsure what for. 

Crowley croons him through it, murmuring in his ear: _ show me, 'Zira. Show me. _

* * *

Angels glow, after.

Crowley never knew.

It's nice—the soft white shimmer in the darkness, as pure and clean across the black silk sheets as frost upon a frozen pond. Aziraphale nestles against his shoulder, half-asleep, his blonde curls soft and mussy between Crowley's fingers. One glowing hand rests where Crowley's heart is.

His angel draws a heart there with a fingertip, over and over.

The shimmer lingers when the line moves on.

"I can see why humanity are obsessed..." Aziraphale murmurs, fondly.

Crowley tries not to smile. "Told you you'd like it," he says. He tilts his head, pressing his lips to Aziraphale's forehead. "Worth the effort, wouldn't you say?"

"Mm. Wholly." Aziraphale begins to sketch the heart the other way. "Does it get... boring, after a while?"

"Sex?"

"Mm."

"Has food gotten boring yet?"

"Heavens, no... nowhere near. There's always something new to try."

Crowley smiles, brushing his nose through Aziraphale's curls. "There you go. Plenty left to discover."

Aziraphale stirs in his arms. He lifts his head from Crowley's shoulder, looking down at him. 

"You won't get bored of me, will you?" he says. He bites his lower lip, searching Crowley's face. "Now that things have... _ happened _ between us."

_ God. _

"No... no, angel. 'Course I won't." Crowley brushes his fingers through Aziraphale's hair, easing the little curls back behind his ear. "Never in a million years. Not now things've started at last."

His angel blushes; a soft and nervous brightness kindles in his eyes. 

"That's quite a promise," he says. "Given that we've lived a mere six thousand..."

Crowley hesitates. 

It feels almost like too much to say—then he remembers they've not come this far, waited so long, to keep on not saying things.

"It felt like a million," he murmurs. He forces himself to keep looking into Aziraphale's eyes as he speaks. It's terrifying, but the softness which floods Aziraphale's face is worth the fear. "Sometimes I'd... I'd _ almost _ get there. Y'know? Put it all out of my head. Convince myself I'd gotten over it. Find something else to occupy me."

Aziraphale's throat muscles work. "O-Occupy you?"

"Something I could think about," Crowley says, softly. "Stop myself from thinking about you... what I always wanted to be to you. Sometimes I almost made it."

Aziraphale says nothing, gazing down at him on the verge of tears. They shine in his own white glow.

"Then I'd see you again," Crowley murmurs, feeling his heart heave, and he knows his tiny shrug is as transparent as fresh-cut glass. He knows he's hiding nothing here. He doesn't know why he's even trying. "I'd bump into you again, some corner of the world, and I... I'd realise I wasn't almost there at all. Wasn't even halfway there. Just really good at pretending I was."

He reaches up, brushing the pad of his thumb beneath Aziraphale's eye. A first silent tear comes away.

"It's been easier this millennium," he says. "Being friends, I mean. Letting myself have just a bit of you." His mouth pulls. "Not _ easy, _ but... easier."

"Oh, god..." Aziraphale's tears break. He comes close again, turning his face into Crowley's neck to try and hide them. "Oh, Crowley—"

"No—no, don't cry, angel... I didn't mean to make you cry. Shhh... c'mere..."

"I know you didn't. I... I-I'm just so _ happy. _ I've never been happier in all my life. Oh, god. I'll keep you safe, Crowley. I promise. I-I promise."

Crowley closes his eyes in silence, stroking the back of Aziraphale's head. The white shimmer flutters as his fingers soothe through it. 

_ Six thousand years, _ he thinks, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale's shoulder. _ Won't have to drift apart again. Won't have to try and forget. We can just live, just be together... just exist... _

It's the strangest feeling—lying here at the end of the world, watching a new one come into being.

As he holds his angel close, he wonders where they'll be six thousand years from now.

Then, it doesn't matter really. 

So long as they're together. 

_The End_


End file.
